


Contact (Hot Hot Hot Sweat Sweet)

by Sunshine_Magnet



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M, God it's hot, I saw those pictures and couldn't stop writing about them, Infidelity, Phuket, Shameless Smut, Sorry Not Sorry, Thailand, otra, safe sex, what a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-19 02:42:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3593319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunshine_Magnet/pseuds/Sunshine_Magnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>HEAT (heet): the state of a body perceived as having or generating a relatively high degree of warmth; the condition or quality of being hot.  </p><p>In Phuket, Thailand, the heat is suffocating.  </p><p>The dictionary doesn’t tell you how to deal with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contact (Hot Hot Hot Sweat Sweet)

**Author's Note:**

> It was the best vacation with her girlfriends; a top night out with dancing and drinks and fun and him…. and then the best vacation turned into a disaster. Some say life imitates art? In this case, art imitates life.
> 
> (Or: We all saw the pictures. I just couldn't stop writing about them.)
> 
> (And at this point, there may be a second chapter...RIP Elounor. Stay tuned.)
> 
> Title taken from Act 2 of Rent.

One thing about Thailand: it's fucking hot.

Not just like a normal summertime hot. It's stifling. The air feels thinner, like you can't even take a good, deep breath without running the risk of suffocating. Even after being here for the last five days, she hasn't adjusted; she just wants a breath of fresh air for fuck's sake.

It's not any better at night, when the pollution is supposedly less (which is a complete lie). When the tides wash away, she's still left with those errant drops of sweat trickling in all those spots sweat collects- her forehead, between her breasts, at the small of her back.

_Between her legs._

Okay, that last one may not be a direct result of the heat, but more because of _him,_ the guy who seems to be everywhere she turns. The club isn't large, nothing in Phuket really is, but still, she can't seem to shake him.

This isn't a bad thing, really. Phuket is one of those places where all of the tourists stand out, this guy no exception. He's not terribly tall, a little thin, but that's not what she notices. His cut-off t-shirt reveals arms almost completely decorated with art; doodles, a tiger, other designs in a sleeve running up his arm she can't immediately decipher. To be honest, he looks like a skater in his skinny black jeans and boots, a cigarette dangling from his lips; his jet black hair is pulled back in a bun (which means he's probably less skater and more hipster), showing a close shave that has her itching to rub her fingers across it to see if it's as soft as it looks.

The crowd in the club moves much like the ocean she's admired for the last week; it ebbs and flows with the beat, rippling with choruses and rolling with verses, songs she doesn't always understand the words to, but in the end, she doesn't need to.

It's fucking hot. 

She moves through the crowd with ease and everywhere she moves, every time she turns around, he's there. Watching, head bobbing along with the beat, he looks like he could be at home here or anywhere and don't they all?

She waves to her friends, both engaged in conversations with other obvious tourists, the blonde with the blond and the brunette with the brunette, matching. She grabs a drink at the bar, whatever the house specialty is, at this point she doesn't care; she's not overly picky.

"Hey." One word. He says one word, a word known to be a greeting, an acknowledgment, a warning, depending on the tone. One word is all it takes.

"Hi." Another word, eyelashes batting (if they aren't stuck together at this point because makeup and this humidity is fucking stupid.). Old habits die hard. She's nothing if not friendly; in Phuket the tourists tend to stick together and why would this guy be an exception?

"Dance?" Three words in and she's hypnotized; green eyes, pink lips, stubble framing those lips and a flash of teeth and she's fucking hot. She nods, weaving her way back onto the crowded floor. He presses up against her, not in an attempt at being forward (okay, _maybe_ in an attempt at being forward), but because if not pressed against her, where else would he stand?

Her body sways to the music, ebbing and flowing and to his credit, he follows along, one hand tentatively on her hip. Her crop top reveals inches of skin that burn beneath his fingers, her short skirt swishes against his jeans (his thighs, his _dick_ ) and she wonders if it's possible for things to actually combust from heat and friction and heat.

She's not sure what would be the first to burn: her clothes or her skin. One would just lead to the other, anyway.

She turns to face him and the bodies press them together, his hand closing around her waist, flat on her back, fingertips brushing the sorry excuse for a bra she put on in a rush (look, a string bikini has multiple purposes in Phuket). She feels a _tap tap tap_ against her back, his finger playing with the dangling strings and most definitely feels that combustion is imminent. The crowd moves in sync around them, left and right left and right, and they follow the masses. She loses her balance and pitches forward, one hand bracing herself on his chest, the other instinctively reaching for her small purse at her hip.

"You okay?" Words four and five; his pink lips form a cocky smile as he covers her hand with his own. _Hot. Fire. Danger._ His green eyes blaze with a hint of mischief; darting around briefly at their surroundings to ensure that are both, indeed, safe in the throng of people.

"I'm good," she manages and now they're less than dancing, more like standing pressed together, moving slower than slow, motionless in the middle of the motion. 

"I'm Zayn," he says over the thrum of the club.

"Wren." She lies, but her middle name is the first thing that comes to mind. _Better safe than sorry._

"London."

"Melbourne."

He nods perfunctorily and smiles. "Wanna get out of here?" His fingers dance across her back, under her top, teasing, sliding down the tracks created from her sweat. _So hot._ She arches an eyebrow in question.

"To where?" There’s tons of other places, just like this one, lining the streets; she doesn’t see how going to any of them would be any better than where they are now. _It’s so fucking hot._ He looks around again, for who or for what, she’s not certain; he ducks his head down to speak into her ear.

“I’m at the Andara.” She arches her eyebrows at the five-star resort’s name, knowing the name of the luxury hotel as one frequented by those who, well, are rich. She steps back an inch, giving him a second glance. _Skater boy-hipster is staying at the Andara?_ It’s then she notices his watch, a heavy gold bracelet circling his left wrist, one that screams money, a Rolex, and then she wonders who exactly is this guy, walking around Phuket with a fucking Rolex, anyway? “I don’t bite,” he says with a Cheshire grin and she secretly finds herself hoping that maybe he would (at least a little). 

This time it’s Wren that looks around, seeking the familiar faces of her friends; the idea of just leaving with this guy has her feeling a little uneasy, but _God_ if she doesn’t want to. The whole purpose of this trip was to recenter and relax; she has a feeling this guy, the skater-hipster with the gorgeous tattoos and hard body pressed up nicely against her, Zayn with the roaming fingers still toying with the strings of her bikini top - she’s pretty sure Zayn can help her find some sort of _thing_ here in Phuket.

“Are those your friends?” Zayn nods in the direction in which she’s looking, her friends still where she saw them last, paired up with their matching companions. Wren nods a couple of times. “Those are my friends. Let’s all go back together, yeah? But we need to get out of here.”

Wren senses a shadow of alarm in his voice, the sweat she felt earlier now feeling just like rivulets of water cascading down her body. Instead of hot, she’s clammy.

“Relax, everything’s good,” he laughs quietly. “I’ll explain in the car. Let’s go get them.” This time it’s Zayn that leads them through the crowd, the music still pulsing beneath their feet, the bass sending tiny vibrations up her legs that Wren can swear she feels in her soul. Her hand is hot in his, _seriously, why is it so hot_ ; at one point, he stops and pushes her in front of him, only a few more feet to go before they reach their friends. She slinks between the revelers, turning to the right to pass through one couple before turning to the left to slide behind another; in a way, she still feels like she’s dancing, Zayn following along behind her. She reaches out for one of her friends, the blonde’s hand like a lifeline pulling her from the ocean.

“There you are! We wondered what happened to you!” The blonde pulls away from her twin, the attractive blond guy she’s obviously been talking to for the better part of the evening. She gives Wren a hug, hot and sweaty and familiar and for the first time all night, Wren feels like she can breathe. It’s still not one of those refreshing deep breaths, oxygen filling your lungs sort of breaths, but its a good feeling, none-the-less. “We were talking about leaving.” Cait, her friend, looks back at the blond, whose hand is anchoring her to him and she smiles.

“So were we,” Wren admits with a blush. Zayn is talking into his other friend’s ear now, her friend Gigi, looking on with a look of adoration.

In the dark light of the club, you can’t really see it - you can’t possibly be able to see how gorgeous Zayn is. Wren does, though, and she thinks that Gigi may see it, too. For one, his eyelashes are things to actually be jealous of; long and thick with just the right amount of curl that Wren would pay for. His jaw line is so severe, especially framed by that delicious scruff she’s been admiring all night, Wren itches to touch it. Gigi throws her head back and laughs loudly, throwing her hand up and moving it in a circle. “Let’s go!”

Their group of six morphs into a group of nine, three men accompanying them out into the street. They’re all dressed similarly, in black, _too fucking hot for Phuket_ ; the group walks down the street to the next intersection where a big, black SUV awaits. Wren looks to her friends, none of them the wiser, as they pile into the vehicle - Cait and the blond first, brown headed guy next followed by Gigi and Wren, who scoots close to her friend when Zayn hops in and closes the door of the looming vehicle. One of the guys in black loads into the front seat and the other two hail a cab behind them. He turns around and looks pointedly at Zayn. “There were cameras.”

For his part, Zayn looks unaffected by the words that make no real sense to Wren. “Okay.” He shrugs and puts his arm around Wren, who is sandwiched between him and Gigi. The SUV is tension-filled, little waves that encapsulate them as they bounce down the road. 

“I’ll ask,” Gigi speaks, shattering the silence. “Why were there cameras and why does he look worried about this?” Gigi is the loud friend, the brash friend, the _Oh my God, I’m so glad I have her_ friend. She looks at Wren with a pursed face while waiting for Zayn to answer.

“It’s no big deal,” brown hair in the back seat says, reaching a hand out and placing it on Gigi’s shoulder. Wren realizes she still doesn’t know his name, doesn’t know any of the boys except for Zayn. 

“It kind of is a big deal, Louis.” The guy in the front turns around to address all of them. He starts to speak, his mouth opening, his brain forming words, however, his voice fails him. He shakes his head and turns back around.

“Do you not know who we are?” Brown hair (Louis) speaks again and Wren turns to look at him. It’s still dark, it must be somewhere in the early morning hours, so she focuses on his facial features. She eyes the blond guy next to her friend, trying to place them.

Cait leans forward. “They’re in a boy band,” she whispers, although in the quiet SUV, her whisper might as well have been a normal voice. “One Direction.”

Wren’s eyes widen as she looks around, first at her friends and then settling on Zayn. She’s heard of One Direction, who hasn’t; she’s not a fan but could pick out one of their songs if necessary. “So, do we need to be worried about the cameras?” Her voice is quiet, low, unsure.

“We’re fine,” Zayn replies easily. The SUV pulls through the gates of the Andara resort with ease, slowing to a stop at the front entrance of the hotel. “Let’s just go to our villa, yeah? Hang out a bit?”

The girls beg off to the restroom in the open-air lobby, Wren clearly signaling that they need a moment to regroup. The boys hail a golf-cart to their villa, leaving instructions for the girls to follow when they are ready.

“What the hell, you guys?” Wren pulls her long hair up off her back, praying for a breeze or something to cool her off. “What are we doing?”

“Niall’s really nice, babe,” Cait shrugs, touching up her lip gloss in the mirror.

“I told him my name was Wren,” she admits with a shrug. “First thing that came to mind.”

Gigi laughs. “That’s our girl, always a little paranoid.” She turns around to face her friends. “Louis said he wants to get high…” She leaves the sentence hanging in the air, the words dangling between them. “So, I’m in.”

Wren nods. “I may need to be in, as well.” She twists her hair up on top of her head, securing it with a hair tie. “Cait? You good?” The blonde looks up and smiles at her friends.

“I’m great. Let’s do this.”

“Fucking One Direction,” Gigi snickers as they pile into the golf cart, a purser delivering them to the, in Wren’s opinion, rather posh villa the boys have rented. “Jesus Christ, look at this place.” They stand out front for a moment, collecting their individual thoughts, collecting courage, stalling before the inevitable. She’s not quite sure how they’ve ended up here nor is she really sure what to expect for the rest of the evening (morning).

“Ladies,” Niall, the blond, welcomes them with a grand sweeping gesture at the door, ushering them into the villa. Cait pecks him on the cheek and Wren sees it - she’s smitten, of course she’s smitten, why wouldn’t she be? The glass sliding doors open to an infinity-edge pool, music is playing at a way more acceptable volume than it was at the club earlier; Zayn and Louis are outside, sitting down on two of the lounge chairs. “Come make yourself a drink.” Niall leads them to the wet bar, fully stocked with premium liquors, wine and champagne. The girls busy themselves, each pouring their own version of poison - Cait choosing champagne, Gigi mixing vodka with orange juice, and Wren sticking with whisky.

They follow Niall outside and Wren finds herself dipping her toe in the water. There’s conversation behind her, words strung together to form sentences, but she’s not paying attention; the moon reflecting off the ocean in front of her has claimed her attention at least for the moment. “Hi.” Zayn’s voice disturbs her thoughts, brings her back to this version of reality. He takes her hand, the music a bit louder outside and they dance, not a single thought given to their friends or anyone else for that matter.

She doesn’t know what it is about him; she can’t explain it. He’s magnetic and so serious and _hot_ and dangerous and before she can think a second more, she’s kissing him. He’s cigarettes and weed, smoke and coffee, whisky and fire all wrapped in a package. Her fingers finally touch the hair at his neck, his slip along the skin at the bottom of her spine, teasing the waistband of her skirt. Her other hand holds her drink, motionless, until all of the sudden, its empty; her free hand finds purchase on Zayn’s hip, grabbing his t-shirt, clutching it in desperate fingers. She hears giggles from somewhere nearby, whispers of her friends, until then, seconds or minutes or hours later, she doesn’t.

 _It’s so fucking hot._ The temperature outside has remained constant, although now Wren feels like she is burning from the inside out. Zayn teases her with his tongue, dueling with her own, a battle in where there isn’t a winner or loser and Wren can only wish for a draw. It’s too much. “Let’s go inside.” She opens her eyes, attempting to focus, feeling a bit crazed. She nods at Zayn’s suggestion, allowing him to lead her through the villa (which is suspiciously quiet now) to a bedroom, swathed all in whites and neutrals. A lamp barely illuminates the room; their shadows dance across the walls, across the duvet on the king sized bed, across the teak flooring.

His t-shirt, her crop top; the button on his jeans, her skirt. His boxers are black, as is her string bikini doubling as lingerie (did she mention how _fucking hot_ it is in Thailand?); they stand and stare, each looking their fill, challenging, waiting. Zayn steps forward, tugging on one of the small ties at her hips, lips quirking into a half-smile. “‘S this okay?”

“Yeah.” She’s distracted momentarily by his tattoos, the ones revealed to her littering his torso, dipping below his waistband. She touches, fingers acting on their own accord and he lets her, stood perfectly still in front of her. Back is the rush, the fever, the torrent when he kisses her, his fingers pulling the tie out of her hair and letting the coppery-brown strands cascade down her back and brush against her breasts. Her bikini joins the rest of their clothes on the floor; when Zayn flicks her nipple with his tongue, Wren nearly keens.

“Shh,” Zayn whispers, mouth exploring her skin. She tries to stand still, she does, but her nerves cause her to tremble under his touch, a light, feathery thing across her torso. “Lay down on the bed, Wren.” She sits first, watching him with wide eyes; he steps out of his boxers, cock springing upward, the tip glistening with a bead of liquid and now she’s licking her lips. She scoots back, inching towards the headboard, settling her head down on the fluffy, down pillows; Zayn rummages around in a bag producing a box of condoms that he tosses down on the bed without a second glance. 

“Zayn,” she pleads anxiously, begging, _hoping_ he knows that by just saying his name what she’s really trying to say is “Please, yes, do something, hurry.” Lucky for her, it seems he understands; that wicked smile returns as Zayn places a hand at her hip, leaning over her as he crouches to the side of the bed. She gasps, feeling a warm puff of air on her pussy, Zayn’s tongue flicking out to wet his lips as he blows softly on her overly sensitive, heated skin. “Oh God,” she whispers, a prayer to the deity, a prayer for herself. Zayn bends his head, a finger sliding between her lower lips before his tongue follows suit, Wren’s back arching off the bed at the contact. The burn between her thighs from his stubble overwhelms her, his tongue and fingers teasing and doing _delicious_ things, Wren reaching for his hair and settling her fingers near his ear. One finger, two; the slick slide, preparing her, urging her forward to a release. His teeth graze her clit, Wren turning her head into a pillow to muffle her moans. 

“Let me hear you. Let them hear you.” His words shock her, especially since so few have been said all night; these last eight words - these _commands_ \- have her spiraling out of control so fast her head feels like it is spinning. Zayn stretches, reaching for the pillows, tossing them off the bed, somewhere in the distance and Wren’s left without a cover.

She moans. Loud. So loud, she’s not even sure the sounds are coming from her alone (they aren’t). _It’s so fucking hot._ She’s burning from the inside out, she’s sure of it, her blood racing with an urgency through her veins, chasing, seeking, barreling towards a release. Zayn presses her legs to the bed, stilling her and that extra pressure on her thigh has her thrashing despite his grip. She babbles, maybe it’s speaking in tongues, she’s not sure, but there is sound coming out of her matching the noises coming from Zayn and then - she’s there.

_It is so fucking hot._

Too hot, too fast, so much, not enough; she’s not even anywhere close to catching her breath when Zayn’s crawling up the bed, up her body, inked skin and toned muscles and rock hard cock brushing against her thigh. He captures her lips in a searing kiss, her taste distinct on his tongue. “Fucking amazing.” Zayn’s voice is gritty, his accent strong, his eyes dark and she’s drowning and it’s so delicious. 

“Please, Zayn, yes,” Wren begs, unashamed now, greedy and wanting more. Her hands reach blindly on the duvet, scrabbling across the white down before latching onto the box. She works with one hand, trying to free a condom from the box (which is a bit of a chore, because, hello, one hand). Zayn lifts his head from her breast, her nipple slick from his tongue, a glimmer of something in his eyes.

His lips quirk into that sexy half-smile; she’d call it a smirk, but that wouldn’t do it justice. He leans onto his hip at her side, taking the condom from her fingers, opening it deftly. “You wanna get fucked, Wren? Yeah?” It’s filthy and dirty and it fucking turns her on. She watches him roll the latex down his shaft, long and hard, his fingers deftly stroking, pumping, preparing. “Get on your knees.” He murmurs the words in her mouth between teeth and tongue, tugging at her lip before releasing it.

Wren slides out from under him, rolling to her side and rising to her knees. Zayn’s mirroring her movements, kneeling behind her, hand still gently stroking his cock. The look in his eyes now is predatory and for a moment, she likens him to the tiger tattoo on his arm, ready to pounce. She smirks at him from over her shoulder; Zayn puts a hand between her shoulderblades and pushes her down. She feels him nudge her legs apart and she widens her stance, his cock teasing her. 

_It’s so fucking hot so hot hot._ Wren can’t even process thoughts when he rams into her, filling her to the hilt on the first thrust. It jolts her forward and Zayn follows, hips flush against hers before he withdraws and pushes back in. The headboard hits the wall with a resounding thud. _Thud. Thud. Thud thud thud._ She pushes back to meet him, her fingers white from the tension of grabbing the sheets, the only things tethering her to earth as she closes her eyes and feels. Grunts, groans, moans, skin; Wren tries to make sense of it all to no avail, but really, what is there to make sense of? It’s sex. It’s sex with a man she just met, a man she’s exchanged less than a hundred words with, a man who is recognized all over the world, a man who is currently fucking her in this ridiculously expensive resort in Thailand.

It’s a little surreal.

Zayn smacks her on the ass, as if he knew she was daydreaming, bringing her right back to the present. She arches her back, changing the angle, and Zayn moans alongside her. Her nipples harden as they sway against the sheets; her nerves scream for a(nother) release. “Come for me. Baby, I’m gonna come,” he rambles, his rhythm quickening as he pounds into her, the headboard thudding, the mattress squeaking and my God, the lamp falls off the table, sheathing the room in darkness. She tightens around him, her inner walls quaking, along with the rest of her as she sails off the cliff after her release.

Zayn pulls out, yanking the condom off, spilling onto her ass as she collapses down onto the mattress, breathless. “Shit,” she exhales, flushed not just from the heat, but from exertion. “Oh my God.” Zayn stills behind her, a little shiver running through his body as he wills his own body to relax. He leans over, pressing his lips to hers, pulling away just as quick and moving off the bed.

“Let me just,” he says, pointing toward the en suite. He grabs the first towel within reach and comes back to the bed, wiping his come off her ass before cleaning himself up. He tosses the towel on the floor before laying down next to her, facing her, holding her hand, bringing it to his lips. His tongue flicks out against her knuckles and she smiles, fingers tracing that line of scruff that shadows his jaw. There’s nothing more to say, and yet, there’s more to say all the same. They talk about Thailand, they talk about Melbourne, they talk about London and England and they do not talk about One Direction. 

They absolutely do _not_ talk about Zayn’s fiancee (do we even call her that anymore?). For as much as she knows about the band, Wren has no clue that this _fiancee_ is even a thing to be concerned with.

They talk about elephant rides and prayerful blessings and the all-searing heat that encompasses them. They go swimming in the private pool in the moonlight, none of his friends or bandmates any of the wiser; they dress and sit outside, talking about anything and nothing at all. They giggle and laugh and take some silly pictures; her to memorialize another night on her vacation, him to file away in a dark, secret place he’d never _ever_ admit to. 

When the girls leave the next morning a little more wrinkled than when they arrived, there’s a silent understanding of what _exactly_ happened in that villa overnight. Just as with Thai culture, what happens behind closed doors _stays_ behind closed doors.

Except for the pictures. No one expected the pictures.

All of the girls actively posted on Instagram, snapshots of their holiday, their trip around Thailand. In the sun of the day, Gigi posted a photo of a non-descript bed and Cait’s photo never actually showed Niall's face; Wren’s did. It, in her opinion, was harmless: a selfie of the two of them that morning, a little worse for wear, cuddled up (clothed) on one of the lounge chairs. She only had close friends and family members following her; in her mind, it didn’t matter - it’s not like any of them knew who Zayn from One Direction was. She expected the girls to have a right laugh, maybe her cousins would say something brash.

She did not expect the backlash.

In hindsight, yeah, okay, maybe it didn't exactly scream "Nothing to see here, move along." No, in the picture, Zayn's hand rested just under her crop top, her hand covering his and well.

It was fucking hot in Thailand.

How was she to know that people routinely searched Zayn’s name, trolling for pictures? How was she to know that they would post these pictures on Twitter with her name, inviting unwanted attention, inviting speculation from hundreds, thousands, _hundreds of thousands_ of fans as to just what had happened between her and Zayn? True to the guy in black’s suspicions, there were other pictures, pictures of them from the club, pictures of them all walking hand in hand, arm in arm, to the SUV, and thankfully - no other pictures from later in the evening (morning).

The next few days were terrifying; she _definitely_ didn’t ask for this. Gigi and Cait handled everything, changing their flights, booking a separate hotel off the beach in Phuket, turning off phones and shielding Wren from the hate that managed to find her. There were calls, emails, comments, _actual death threats_ ; as fast as she deleted and changed passwords and did whatever she could to _Oh my God make it go away_ , then there was Zayn. Cait wordlessly showed Wren the article, the one where Zayn begged off their world tour for a bit to cope with stress. 

Then there were pictures the following day of Zayn walking somberly through the airport, regret the only clear emotion on his face.

She wanted to apologize, to take the whole thing back, to Control-Z this mess she'd unintentionally made. With time, she realized that it wasn't all her doing. Zayn had been there too; _he_ approached her, _he_ took the selfie, _he was there, too._ And then he wasn’t. There was no way to contact him; instead, she deactivated all social media profiles she'd ever created (how did they even find her MySpace page from 2006, really?). Prior to returning to Melbourne, she phoned ahead and quit her job, vowing to leave all traces of her old self behind in Phuket.

When she resurfaced, and it took some time to completely feel normal again, she was stronger than ever. Gone was the naive, paranoid version of her former self. With a renewed sense of self, she started going by her middle name formally and got a new job. She had her friends and her family supporting her, she had memories of a vacation she would never forget, for there was definitely more good than bad that happened over the course of the week, she had a new hairdo (she'd always wanted to go darker and shorter), and she learned a very valuable lesson.

_When you play with fire, you're bound to get burned._

_And Thailand was so fucking hot._


End file.
